so many soldiers
Once upon a time, there was a girl and a boy and a twisted old man.
The boy runs, the girl hunts. The old man laughs and drags his oxygen tank behind him. It's all very Greek. My father is my uncle is my killer is my lover is my brother. Practically fucking Oedipal.
"I'd put it at 10 to 1," he said. So, no, not very likely that Daddy's my father. Not at all.
Once upon a time, the girl wanted to scream. But didn't. Yet.
The martini was dry, dry, dry, and the floor was wet. Christmas carols jingled and jangled and crooned in the night. And this girl's bad luck, or so they claim, and she paints her nails to match the blood under them. Her gun is heavy and smells like oil.
Target practice. Tag, you're it.
I practice pouting in the mirror every morning.
Hair tucked behind my ears, a slight glance down, a nervous lick of my lower lip. "But, officer, I don't know how to change a tire," with a soft waver. A shy smile. The girl in the mirror is a stranger. But she comes in handy, even if I'd rather just reach for my weapon. My trusty glock; a birthday present from Daddy. The man who would be my father.
But this girl, she doesn't even know how to hold a firearm; she's one of those Million Mom March women. She reads Harry Potter books. Gardens. Bakes fucking chocolate chip cookies while humming a merry tune, and this is probably the biggest difference between us. I haven't baked in years, not since Daddy stopped pretending he wanted to spend the holidays with me. And happy songs just aren't my style.
Which is not the point.
Sometimes, a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta.
Jarod sends emails, sometimes, from hotmail and graffiti and free webmail sites I've never even heard of. Always from some public location, some web cafe or library, always sent after he's already gone. I'm careful not to open them until I know he's safe.
I still chase him, of course. I'd even fucking shoot him. Ours is not a traditional romance.
We meet in dark alleyways and in luxury hotels. His hands are callused some nights, and that's what I like best. Hands rough against my thighs, and I can practically come just looking at him. Fingers pressing into my flesh, and he always leaves a mark.
At the front desk, I smile and call myself Anna. Flirt nervously with the clerk just enough to make him think I'm some stupid housewife having an affair. Some stupid bitch with a boring husband and a split-level in the suburbs somewhere. I pay in cash.
My pale blue sundress lies on the floor. Jarod's pants twist around his ankles.
I scratch my nails up Jarod's back, cutting into the skin. He sighs, and presses me into the mattress. I bite into his neck and flip him underneath me. I like to be on top; so does he. It's always a fight with us, a competition. Tonight, I have every intention of winning, and he left his gun on the nightstand.
Tonight I brought handcuffs.
I leave him naked and cuffed to the bed, and walk out in a fresh black suit. He can keep the fucking sundress.
Broots is irritating, as usual, and I hand him the printout of Jarod's latest missive with a shrug. Sydney's figured everything out, or at least he thinks he has, and I let him believe whatever the fuck it is he believes. It's not like he's telling anyone.
"He's in Dallas," Broots proclaims, "Texas."
I check my clip, grab some extra ammo, and we're out the door. The jet is ready for takeoff.
He's gone, of course. He always is.
Now, Ma Goose'd write that Jarod and I fall into each other's arms in the end. That he's waiting for me with a smile and a diamond ring when I get home; that we buy a ourselves a house, have 2.5 little brats, and live the American fucking dream. Give up our guns and the fight and ourselves in the process; learn to love the simple things. Mother Goose is full of shit.
Cinderella's packing heat, Snow White's dressed in leather. Prince Charming's on the lam, and happily ever after's for suckers.